In Media Vita
by hauntedd
Summary: In Media Vita - In the midst of life. Michael and Maria; Tess and Kyle
1. Prologue

Title: In Media Vita  
Author: hauntedd  
Rating: M  
Disclaimer: These characters are not mine & are the property of Jason Katims/Melinda Metz  
Summary: In Media Vita – In the midst of life.  
AN: Based on a challenge by killjoy that was slightly tweaked with his consent. This was done for insidiousheart who won me at the first Support Stacie auction. I've also never really done Candy before (I'm a Mental Vibrator/Polarist), so there's that too haha.

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**Prologue**

Dawn breaks on the horizon and he finds himself rubbing his dirt-streaked hands against his skin, a futile act to escape the advent of another day. With a grunt, he rises from the dry grass, unruly and far too brown for this time of year and stretches. His muscles burn and he takes note, not that it matters, really, there's no rest for a man on the run.

Turning on his heel, he takes his meager belongings in his hands and heads toward the brook he saw last night and scowls – it looked a whole lot better in the dark. He can't complain, though, at least there's something to wash his clothes in – he's had to do it all the old fashioned way since that guy in Marathon, half crazy and nearly dead, told him how to make everything out of nothing.

"_It exists in lines, you find the right one and cut it – then it all goes the way it should've. Cut the wrong one and it all goes to shit."_

He figures even shit is better than this. But he tries not to dwell on it – fucks with the mission, and he needs a one-track mind.

Dipping his pants in the water he catches a glimpse of his reflection and finds a stranger looking back. It's fitting since he's become somewhat of a ghost since leaving home, years before, his only family long gone. But despite the tanned skin and weary gaze, he still knows his name – Michael Guerin – and with it comes the fact that he's a modern day Ulysses whose odyssey will only end in tragedy since the closest he had to both Laertes and Penelope died along the way.

He doesn't like to think about it, because thinking leads to wishing, and like his foster father liked to say after a bit of moonshine, you can wish in one hand and shit in the other and then see what gets filled first.

It was the only bit of sage advice the drunk had ever given him. Hank's lessons tended to be far more physical than cerebral, and Michael has the scars to prove it.

But memories of three bullets and final acts of derring-do come anyway. It seems that no matter how fast or far he runs, a part of him remains in the hills of Pennsylvania with the specks of dust that carried off into the wind when the bodies failed to hold their form.

"_Run!"_

"_I… No."_

"_It's too late… you have to... I… they can't get all of us, I won't let them."_

"_No, I can't, we need to fight. We can heal this."_

"_Damn it Michael, let me be the hero for once."_

Staring out at the expanse of desert, he reaches into his battered backpack, the frayed straps of the black L.L. Bean held together by a few metal safety pins, and grabbed the dog-eared Rand McNally from one of the pockets. Extracting a pen from between the pages, Michael slips his bare feet into the stream and eyes the maps carefully as his jeans dry next to him.

"I'm in fucking New Mexico," he groans as he realizes he's about 40 minutes outside of Santa Fe. At least it's upstate, he reasons, and figures he can get a job as a day laborer to pay the bills until he can get out to Los Angeles – he's down to his last twenty dollars and knows that's not going to be enough. The irony of coming full circle isn't lost on him – though anyone he knew is long gone and he's not going back to Roswell. Not when he knows there's nothing there but the shadows of nightmares lingering in corners of places once familiar.

Clawing an eyebrow, Michael formulates a plan while washing his t-shirt, leaving his chest, defined and muscular through hundreds of these temporary lives, exposed to the morning sun, now higher than before.

It was easier even two years ago, when he was twenty-four and one of three, not an army of one. When it was common to turn a dollar into a hundred and the van had yet to meet the ditch that did it in. Now, it's different and his time as a vagrant has taught him that while he trusts himself, most of the time, he shouldn't waste his last twenty on a gamble.

Michael knows that he needs a job and the only way that he'll get one is by leaving the solitude for the city – he knows he can't pass for _ilegal_ – but no one's ever asked questions before, and they deal in cash, which is the only way he can continue to remain on the periphery of society.

So he throws his clothes back on with militaristic precision and kicks the dirt off of his shoes, intent on getting to the city before last pickup. Missions require action and plot needs filler and he's ready for another chapter on the way to the beginning after the end.


	2. Chapter 1

Hi thanks for the fb :) -G

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**Chapter 1**

It's noon when he sees the first signs of civilization – a convenience store with chipped paint that advertises a 3 for 2 special on cases of Budweiser. The pickup trucks are long gone and with them goes the opportunity for a quick forty doing manual labor.

The sun has moistened his skin and his faded navy shirt seems black as the sweat seeps through the fabric, forcing the cotton to cling to his chest. There's a metaphor there, he's certain, but there's not much time to dwell when his stomach is making its presence known.

Kicking a pebble from the dirt with his ratty shoe, Michael makes his way to the entrance, taking note of the armadillo digging nearby. Those fuckers can be nasty if they want to be and he's not willing to risk it when there's no way to utilize his otherworldly advantage. But he's hungry and not willing to wait, so he steps inside, wincing as the bells jingle to mark his arrival.

The walls are sallow and layered with torn posters, faded and out of date, but Michael's used to these places and inhales the stale air, which smells oddly like home. He's missed the last pickup and figures the best he can do is stretch his money for a bottle of water and a stick of spicy beef jerky.

Michael finds his makeshift meal easily amidst the rows of sundries that have all past their expiration date and stops near the glass case. He stares longingly at the hotdogs rotating lamely under the heat lamps. It's been weeks since he's eaten something even halfway decent – usually he raids gardens at night like an animal, but the poor make do, and he does just that.

He approaches the counter and meets the questioning gaze of the clerk, a burly man with salt and pepper hair spilling out of his hunting cap and a beat up name badge that reads "Ned" and sits on an angle. He frowns as Michael puts his items up on the counter, lightly cased in dust.

"How much?" Michael asks intent on getting in and out of the store as quickly as possible. He's never been one for small talk and he's convinced these Podunk towns survive on the whispers of stories so exaggerated they color the history of what would otherwise be a tumbleweed passing for a mile marker.

"Two sixty," he replies, taking the proffered bill in his hand and punching a few keys on the register. Tilting his cap upward, Ned takes a good hard look at Michael and frowns. "You're not from around here, boy."

"No," Michael agrees, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, anxious to leave. He hates these niceties when he's in a good mood, so the gnawing hunger and his continued unemployment only add to his irritation.

The clerk stares at him expectantly – unsatisfied by his one word affirmation of a truth that's been evident since he walked through the door. The whole town comes by here at one point or another and he knows them all by face.

"Dexter," he adds in explanation, lying through his teeth. The clerk nods at that, accepting him as one of his own – Dexter had about a thousand residents, which seemed to be about half the population of the town he was currently in. He isn't sure if it's the manifestation of latent ability or the sad story of his existence, but Michael had become an expert in sizing up a town upon arrival.

"What're you doin' in Edgewood?"

"Needed a change of scenery," Michael answers, his eyes focused solely on the exit, which seems to move further away with every passing second inside. Making a motion for it, he stops when the man reached for the phone, his fingertips grazing the beige plastic of the tangled cord.

Instinct takes over and he stopped dead in his tracks, turning back toward the counter. The last thing he needs is some vigilante who watches too many cop shows calling in the local police on a hunch. These small towns are all the same and Michael knows them like the back of his hand and they tend to consider breathing the wrong way a threat to their way of life.

"You a drifter?"

"Not really," he replies, shrugging his shoulders in response. Evasiveness was like an old hat now and most people considered it rude, which was fine with him.

"Then what're ya doin' here? Shit, son, no one comes here willingly," Ned drawls, examining the younger man. He's genuinely curious now, the kid looks normal enough, but knows firsthand what a hard life can do to a person. He came to Edgewood the same way, twenty-two and fresh out of the 'Nam with no money to speak of until some all American hawk of a farmer gave him a break.

Now, Ned's whole life revolves around this town and he's known to take matters into his own hands to keep the peace, but the more the boy fidgets lamely, the less willing he is to go that route.

He's seen this countless times before – a hard luck guy in the dawn of manhood trying to make do in a world that won't give him a break. It's the same thing that once reflected back in the mirror, before his hair got grey and he first felt the passage of time in his bones. But most of the visitors these days have something to prove, but Ned can tell this kid is just looking for a lifeline.

"Work," Michael grunts automatically, scowling as the man's gaze wordlessly prompts him for more information. Years on the run and visits from child services had taught him the art of lying convincingly, but he'd never been one for small talk. "Farms down there didn't bring in a lot of crops this year."

"Good luck findin' it," the older man smirks, adjusting his hat. "All we got are the damn Mexicans and no one's gonna pay a hard workin' American a fair rate when you got them doing it for a few pesos."

"So, no leads then?" Michael frowns, one hand now on the door. He's had it with hillbillies and small towns, and if he's right then there's nothing here for him. Time's a luxury he doesn't have and if there's nothing here, he best keep going.

"Didn't say that," Ned grins, his mouth wide and revealing more gums than teeth, pleased to finally have the upper hand. The store gives him access to all the gossip and he figures the ranch needs a hand.

"What _did_ you say?" Michael probes, annoyance coloring the anxiousness coursing through his veins. Maybe the guy knew something after all – which would be a welcome change, since he knows he can't get to Los Angeles to chase phantoms on seventeen dollars and forty cents.

"There's a ranch, 'bout 10 miles south – young girl, real pistol, real pistol," he repeats, adjusting his cap as his eyes glaze over with something akin to lust. "Mean little thing, that one, runnin' a ranch for foster kids – real Peter Pan like. Takes 'em in like her ma and Jim did, but she's no Amy. Calypso's gone run down now, her an' her friend Tess they can't do it do it alone. That there ranch needs a strong man to get're glory back, not some sissy."

"Yeah?" Michael says, a grin flashing across his face for a second –his mission has become tangible again and his purpose will be fulfilled – he owes it to the ones who gave him _this_. And while it's not a life he's still breathing.

"Yeah – an' I'm only tellin' you 'cause you seem bona fide – you've been standin' here talking to me when I can tell this the last place you wanna be."

Michael opens his mouth to argue only to be met with a glare. Damn townies – stupid as hell, but they sure can read a person better than anyone else. "Ten miles south?"

"Yep – but don't tell're I sent ya. If I was ten years younger, I wouldn't have," Ned laughs as Michael makes his exit, his shoulders far straighter than when he entered. Damn kid has a hope now and Ned feels the weight of old debts lifted.

"Thanks," Michael nods, turning as he wipes the sweat from his brow. "One question – what's this chick's name?"

Ned sighs; picturing the fire behind her eyes and clutches his chest. They don't grow girls like that often in these parts and Edgewood's got two of them, blonde and beautiful.

"Maria. Maria Deluca."


	3. Chapter 2

AN: Thank you for the fb guys, I appreciate it!!! - G

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**Chapter 2**

Calypso lay on the edge of town, once an oasis with lush greens not normally seen in New Mexico, now rested on the remnants of broken dreams. A tragic sight if there ever was one, the ranch is left well enough alone with overgrown grass, browning due to lack of water. It still serves its purpose, even under new management, and while the money has gone, kids still find their way here and there is work to be done.

That is what brought him here, and from the look of it, his hope had not been misplaced.

Rusted out toys line the path, well loved but under-appreciated, while a few horses mill about. Michael sighs and takes it all in, the overgrown gardens and dried out corn stalks tell a tale of what might have been, growing more optimistic with each step. If any place needs help it's certainly this one and he makes a mental note to thank the store clerk on his way out of here.

The farmhouse is terracotta red, faded from what, he assumes, was more of a cherry, while the white paint has chipped, browning the exterior. Michael makes his way up the path, noting the tattered shoes with pink laces that lay in the dirt, defeated and disregarded.

Memories of his childhood color his view;from the outside, it didn't look that different from life in Chisholm, poverty's obvious enough to catch, except that the trailer park smelt of stale cigarettes and cheap whiskey, not cows and horses.

The other differences are subtle, though the lack of shattered glass is apparent;traces of hope linger, despite the futility of it all. Michael is certain that he prefers the despair of his old home, when going without a beating meant that it was a good day. At least it left him well prepared for the life he's leading.

Clawing an eyebrow, Michael knocks at the door, once, twice, three times. He can tell someone's home, the playful screeches and pattering feet provide little cover. Tapping his foot, he stands by and waits a minute, two, three.

Lifting his hand to knock again, he recoils as the door flies open to reveal a blonde girl with wild green eyes. World weary and frazzled, she leans against the doorway and purses her lips and Michael exhales. He's seen this girl a thousand times before, with a thousand different names. They all look the same - hard lives force them to tread the thin line between sanity and madness - he should know, Isabel was there toward the end.

"Yes?" She snaps, pushing a stray strand of hair off her face. She's got mouths to feed and bills to pay and frankly the last thing that she needs is some stranger wasting her time with a schpeel she's heard a hundred times before. Ever since her mom died, they've been coming regularly; interested in the idea behind the ranch, and willing to pay off old debt, but only if she reinvents it into something else entirely.

Her mom would never approve of any of it. After all, she'd founded the home when her own parents kicked her out, sixteen and pregnant, without a soul to help her.

"Is Maria in?" Michael asks, awkwardly shifting his feet as two children, no older than ten,run down the hallway behind her. Games of tag and laughter do a good job of covering what Michael's sure is chaos - he's been places like this too, before Hank and Chisholm, when foster homes blurred together and every door was a new beginning.

"I'm Maria… and you are?"

"Michael Guerin," he says by way of introduction, flashing what he hopes is his most charming smile. It's been a while since he's had to perform, since he's been on his own, the only pleasantries he's exchanged pass in grunts and groans - the universal language of the disadvantaged.

"No thank you," Maria interjects, scornfully rejecting his outstretched hand. She's used to these clowns by now; everyone's trying to make the ranch into something other than what it is and the Delucas were used to protecting their own.

"What?"

"Look, whatever you're selling, I'm not interested," Maria huffs, defensively crossing her arms against her chest as she reaches for the door. She's a woman on a mission and learned a long time ago not to waste time with strange men.

"I'm not -"

"How stupid do you think I am?" Maria asks, making no effort to mask her irritation as she cuts him off. The damn plow broke again and one of her kids decided that the rusted teeth would be good toys. The last thing she needs is some crazy traveling salesman pushing an agenda.

"You're too old to be a foster kid, so, either you're selling something I don't need or trying to convert me, and, really, you don't look like the god-fearing type," Maria explains, waving her hands emphatically. "Unless you're in some crazy desert cult and I am _not_ drinking your Kool-Aid."

"But -"

"No," Maria huffs, interrupting again. She has no time for this and figures if she's rude enough he'll just go away.

Michael scowls, inhaling sharply as his irritation grows. While he was certain that he was going to get some pushback from her, he never imagined he'd come face to face with a 21st century Miss Hannigan. "Would you just -"

"I'm a busy woman, Michael, and I have too much going on to deal with _you_. There are mouths to feed and stables to clean and a plow to fix and are only twenty-four hours in a day, so unless you're the younger, grungier, version of Ed McMahon looking to give me a check for a million dollars, I'm **not** interested."

"I -"

"How many times do I have to say this? Thank you and goodbye," Maria stresses, shutting the door as he steps forward, unwilling to hear another word. Sure, it's not the most polite thing to do, but with seven kids from troubled homes, Maria's not so sure that she has time to worry about general niceties anymore.

Michael stares at the white door for a few seconds as the conversation replays in his head. Too much time on his own had lessened his ability to respond in kind and now it feels like whiplash after a car wreck.

How in the hell did she do that?

Infuriated and determined to not let some redneck harlot with spaghetti in her hair and pouty lips get the last word, he knocks on the door, closed fist and pounding. What was it that clerk said? The ranch needs a strong man? Well, he'd show her just how strong he could be.

The door flies open mid knock and Michael quickly lowers his fist to avoid knocking her in the head. That should get him some brownie points, since punching your future boss wouldn't be the best way to end a job interview.

"Jeez you're persistent. What are you, homeless?" Maria snaps, glaring at him. One of the kids woke up from her nap because of Michael and it was only a matter of seconds before the screaming took over the whole damn ranch. Inhaling, she waits for Michael to respond, only to notice that he's scuffing his shoes.

Shit.

"You _are_ aren't you," Maria says finally, wincing as she figuratively sticks her foot in her mouth. God, if her mom could see her now.

"In a matter of speaking."

"How is it a matter of speaking? You either are or you're not!"

"What's it to you? You're not gonna hire me…"

"How do you -"

"You've been judging me since I came to your door. I've seen thousands of looks just like the one you gave me," Michael spits, not even bothering to hide his animosity. He figures that seventeen dollars and forty cents won't get him far, but it will get him somewhere and somewhere is what he needs right now. He's sick of this town already and curses Ned, he should've known better than to trust some inbred townie whose idea of seeing the world involved FHM's international list of the top 100 hottest women.

Taking a step toward the road, he lowers his palm, pooling energy to decimate her crops, stopping when he hears her take a step outside. Getting caught would be the perfect end to his day and he's not willing to risk it.

"Whatever, I'm not judging you," Maria replies, folding her arms over her chest as she takes another step toward him.

She's not used to this. Michael's the first person, other than Tess, whom she's been able to argue with lately. The kids are out of the question and while Kyle is good for the occasional burp and fart joke, he's no use for verbal sparring. "At least I wasn't until you pulled your woe is me bullshit."

"You know, you can barely grow grass, you shouldn't be looking a gift horse in the mouth," Michael snaps, staring down the blonde as she glares at him.

"Oh, so I should be lucky that the big, burly man has come to save me? Please," Maria huffs waving her hand up into the ether, annoyed by his re-inflated ego.

"For someone whose ranch is falling apart, you sure do talk a lot," Michael smirks, amused by how quickly her lips thin into a frown.

"Didn't they teach you manners?"

"Who?"

"I don't know, the people from whatever backwater town you came from," she hisses, not wanting to have the kids overhear her - it's just something about Michael that makes her mad. The sooner he's gone, the better.

"I should ask you the same question."

"Difference is, I'm not asking for a **job**," Maria stresses, irritated by his arrogance. God, he's _homeless_ and still a pompous ass.

"Fine," Michael acquiesces, exhaling as he takes a moment to carefully select his next words. "Maria, I think we got off on the wrong foot here, I mean, I'm sure that you're _more_ than capable of handling the ranch on your own, but what about the kids?"

"What about them?"

"Don't they need a strong male role model to look up to?" Michael asks, invoking the advice of the store clerk - he figures that since the townies believe it, Maria will pick up on the same reasoning. Maybe.

"And… you think you're some kind of example? Please, my step-brother is a sheriff's deputy and -"

"Fine. I may not be some role model, but I'm loyal -"

"Which would be fine if you were a dog, but -"

"I'm _loyal_," he stresses, annoyed. He's spent years on the run with his family all because of his brother's inability to keep his hands to himself - and he needs this to make amends. "A hard worker and I won't give you any trouble."

"You've already given me trouble, or what do you consider this, foreplay?"

"It is stimulating conversation," he leers, taking the easy bait and isn't disappointed by her reaction.

"Oh my god, ew, no, never, oh my _god_," Maria shrieks, disgusted by the thought of this man getting anywhere near her that way.

"My thoughts exactly," Michael replies with a grin - he's found himself a job, even if Maria doesn't realize it yet.

"Good, then we're in agreement. So long, farewell, aufwiederzehn, good_bye_," Maria returns, heading back to the house.

Michael reaches for her arm and pulls her wrist, causing Maria to spin back to face him, blonde hair spins in a circle, like a halo that he knows she doesn't deserve. He steps closer, leaning in and meeting her gaze as he lowers his head slightly to find her ear.

"This place is supposed to give people a chance - let me prove to you that I deserve one," he whispers before taking a step back, convinced he's already gotten his chance.

"Fine," Maria huffs after a moment, getting her bearings as she rakes her bottom lip through her teeth to bury a mischievous grin that would give herself away. God, she needed him gone before he provided anymore distractions and she knew just the way to get it. "Fix my plow and I'll hire you."

"Your plow?"

Damn. She didn't bite.

"Yeah, my plow… and the tractor it's attached to. It's kind of rusted and it won't exactly start, but if you get it to actually work, then Michael, consider yourself hired," Maria explains, never mentioning that if Michael fixes it, he'd also be a miracle worker. But she figures that not only would she get an afternoon of free entertainment, but a guarantee that he would be out of her life by morning. Maria always liked it when she wound up winning.

"What's the catch?" Michael asks, not fooled for a moment by Maria's sudden change of heart - her green eyes were dancing a bit too much - but she doesn't know his ace in the hole, either, and that will make all the difference in the end.

"Catch? There's no catch - you're right, you win. It's around the back… get it working and you can stay. If you can't, then, you really don't have anything to offer me," Maria replies with a sacrine smile - victory will be hers, and boy will it be sweet.

"Fine," Michael agrees, extending a hand to take her up on her offer.

"Fine," Maria repeats, shaking his hand. "It's right around the back, should be easy enough to find."

She points to the back of the ranch, near the barn, where a few barrels of hay are lying haphazardly and watches him go. When he's out of earshot, Maria lets out a laugh, grateful for small victories.

"Sucker," she snickers, and steps inside.


End file.
